Gooey fudge, whipped cream, about twenty thousand calories’ worth. But when she got to the apartment she couldn’t eat it. Two bites at the kitchen table, and her throat closed up and she pushed it away. All the weeks spent living on Slim-Fast to rid herself of twenty pounds of flab so she’d feel good, look good . . . good as she’d ever look . . . she just couldn’t do it to herself, start eating her way back into Fat City. Not for any reason. She put the cake away in the freezer, wandered into the bedroom. Still some of Horace’s clothes in the closet, stuff he hadn’t taken with him to Philadelphia. She yanked every piece off the hangers, threw them into a pile in the corner—all except his brown suede jacket, one of his favorites, overlooked or forgotten when he was packing. She found a pair of shears and cut off both sleeves at the elbow, snip snip, slash slash. Didn’t make her feel any better. If anything, she felt worse. She threw the mutilated jacket on top of the other stuff and sat down on the bed, then sprawled out on her back.
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